


give to you my silence

by vands38



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Forehead Touching, King Niedamir's Mountain, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, did i mention this is soft, hand holding, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22627936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: sometimes all Geralt needs is silence
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1157





	give to you my silence

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [give to you my silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23802469) by [kseniamayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kseniamayer/pseuds/kseniamayer)



> the obligatory episode 6 fix-it
> 
> not related to my ongoing Witcher series in any way - just 5k of unrelated pining because I am WEAK

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s rage simmering as he turns towards the valley; it feels hot, and uncomfortable, like standing too close to an open furnace. Jaskier hadn’t heard every word Yennefer said to him but he didn’t have to; Jaskier knows heartbreak when he sees it.

His instinct is to say something light-hearted and innocuous (“phew, what a day”) to try to startle Geralt out of his single-minded wrath and onto the road again. But something tells him it would not be welcome; a taut line to his shoulders that is normally absent, even in the most dire of circumstances. He wants to approach him, lay his hand upon the twisted tension of his shoulders and feel it dismantle at his touch, but this is no bathtub after battle, and this time the tension will not be so easy to assuage.

Geralt is hurting, and Jaskier knows that sometimes hurt just has to be felt.

Jaskier turns away with a heavy heart. Geralt does not know how to accept comfort when he is bleeding from an open wound, he never does, so Jaskier will do what he always does: readies the salve, the thread, and the bandages - or, in this case, ready their bags - and hope that Geralt will eventually have the sense to come to him.

It takes a long time, this time. Jaskier has foraged some food and tuned his lute and is sat mending the tear in his doublet when Geralt eventually returns to the path.

He looks around. The others have long since gone.

“You’re still here,” he grunts. His voice is perfectly neutral; nothing to tell Jaskier if he made the right decision in leaving him to his thoughts.

“I’ve a terrible sense of direction,” Jaskier jests, testing the water. “I’d’ve gotten lost without you.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt looks away, towards the winding mountain paths leading to the valley. There’s still a tension to him; a heat still rippling in waves. Too early for jokes then, it seems.

Jaskier puts his work aside and readies to leave as Geralt starts the descent down the mountain.

***

Silence doesn’t come as easily to Jaskier as it does to Geralt. He remembers their first beastly encounter, many years ago now, when Geralt had asked gruffly for some “blessed silence”.

“ _Yeah, I don’t really go in for that,_ ” he had said.

But, he had learned how. Because Geralt desired silence and Jaskier desired Geralt and it was the only thing he could reasonably offer. He had no skills with a blade, his cooking ability leaved something to be desired, and he only knew how to fix garments because early in their acquaintance - before his music had generated the coin Geralt so rightly deserved - Geralt had brusquely sat him down and taught him how to sew because they could hardly afford professional repair. No, the only thing Jaskier could rightly offer was his songs and his silence, and thus he had learned to balance the two like a master.

Most days were balanced thus: silence in the morn, composition on the road, silence on a hunt, songs by the fire, silence at night, and then, later, when they were trying to claim coin from a grouchy barkeep or uptight baron for a job well done it was very specifically ‘Toss a Coin’. A fairly simple routine to follow.

Until, that is, they could afford a tavern. Then the boundaries would start to blur.

Geralt would permit him to talk for endless hours when he was warm and sated in a bath. He would allow him to compose at night-time. Ask questions at day. Sing raucous odes in the eve until they had raised enough for a fine meal. Murmur heartbroken ballads in the early morn while Geralt dozed beside him.

It was this interruption in routine that pulled at his heartstrings. He could pretend he wasn’t painfully pining for the man when they were on the road and had monsters and bedrolls and icy-cold rivers to dissuade him. It was something else entirely when he could sleep beside him and watch the first rays of sunlight fall onto his bare chest, rising slowly and peacefully in slumber, and his face - normally concentrated in a frown - smoothed by well-earned rest. There was a reason why it was always ballads that teased his mind in the morning, but if Geralt ever made the connection, he never voiced it. Sometimes Jaskier would see him crack an eye open before dozing once more; sometimes he would even delude himself that there was the softest smile on his face when he did. Then, after hours of playing, Geralt would slowly blink awake and indulge him in some conversation - sometimes the deepest secrets Geralt would share wouldn’t be on the road, as some might expect, but there, on a bed beside him, too sleepy to yet comprehend the depth of the meaning.

Those quiet moments of insight were precious to him and Jaskier hordes them as close to his heart as he can stand. And he knows, if Geralt is to grant him any more of those glimpses into himself, that Jaskier will have to hold back now.

So, he does. He follows Geralt silently for hours until the sun has set, his stomach growls, his skin shivers, and his feet are raw. He flicks his eyes up the road ahead where he can see the moonlight mirror Geralt’s white hair. Given his sour mood, the witcher will likely walk until sunrise, but Jaskier is a mere mortal who fears he cannot take another step.

“Geralt,” he calls.

Geralt stops in his tracks and turns fast, eyes wide and fixed on Jaskier, as if he had forgotten he followed in his footsteps. An impossibility, he knows, due to Geralt’s enhanced hearing, but perhaps he had been so lost in his thoughts that the sound had faded into insignificance.

“Forgive me,” he says, because he is certain his apology will be warranted. “But I need to rest.”

Geralt looks at him with a frown and then turns that frown towards the skies. Had he not realised the late hour? The frown deepens, his eyes flickering to their surroundings, but the low light impedes Jaskier’s further interpretation.

“There’s a clearing not far from here,” Geralt states. “Set camp. Get warm. I will find us food.”

“Right,” Jaskier says distractedly, reeling from Geralt’s unexpected action as the witcher strides into the wilderness. “Right.”

***

Jaskier shivers by the fire. Now he is motionless the cold has seeped into his bones. He wishes he had the foresight to pack more than a single bedroll and blanket. His feet are thankful for the reprieve though as he takes off his boots by the campfire and lets his sore feet breathe in the night air. He snacks on the remaining berries he had foraged earlier as he waits for Geralt’s return and tries not to tremour at every howl of wolf or rustle of leaves. His fingers are too numb to play and his mind too tired to compose, so he sits there, unmoving, and waits in the silence he has become accustomed to.

A carcass is dropped at his feet an indeterminate amount of time later. Jaskier jars at the motion only to be eased moments later when he realises what the arrival of a hare signifies. He turns to see Geralt, turned away from the fire, stripping his weapons and his outer armour.

Jaskier obligingly begins to skin the hare when something else hits his face. “Argh!” he exclaims, more out of surprise than anything else. “What’s-?” he starts, but then hesitates when he realises that it’s soft and smells… _braided hair, lazy mornings, heartache_ … it smells like Geralt. Freshly cleaned Geralt. Soft Geralt. It’s his blanket, which he must have used infrequently enough since the tavern that it still smells of lavender soap. Ah. Of course. He would not have needed it in Yennefer’s company.

“You’re cold,” Geralt states.

He was, but he hadn’t expected Geralt to notice, much less do something about it. If Geralt hadn’t just had his heart broken, Jaskier would likely have something witty to say about it, but he’s cold and it smells like Geralt, and he’s pathetic enough to accept it. “Thank you,” he says as he wraps it around himself and does not, by any means, _inhale_.

Geralt grunts and tosses Jaskier a skewer for the meat which narrowly misses his jugular, and this, at least, is normal.

***

Geralt sits beside him as they eat, not as close as usual, but not far enough away as to give Jaskier reason to worry.

“You are not playing,” Geralt observes with a nod at his lute.

It is the first time Geralt has initiated anything approaching conversation since they left the mountaintop and Jaskier attempts not to look too pleased by the matter. On another day he would tease Geralt, because surely that comment implies that he misses the music, does it not? But, today is not that day. “I’m tired,” Jaskier answers plainly.

His simple response has the opposite effect to the one he had anticipated. Geralt tenses beside him, anger raised once again as he growls, “We could have stopped earlier.”

There is no use arguing with Geralt when he is angry. He gets all righteous about it, just like he does everything else. Instead, Jaskier shakes his head and smiles sadly as he tosses the remainder of the hare in the fire. “No, we couldn’t’ve,” he says as he readies to leave for his bedroll. “You needed to keep going.”

He is lying down and closing his eyes by the time Geralt responds. His voice is so quiet that Jaskier wonders if he’s meant to hear it at all about the crackle of the fire. “You have needs too,” he whispers.

 _Do I?_ Jaskier wonders. _Or have my needs merely become yours?_

***

Jaskier wakes to the sound of metal and stone. He recognises the sound - how could he not? Geralt cleans and sharpens his swords every spare moment they have. He cares for them as Jaskier cares for his lute; something that Jaskier is determined not to find as endearing as he does.

He notes, with some shame, that it is long past sunrise. “Shit,” he swears, fumbling for his belongings. “You should have woken me.”

Geralt grunts as he goes for another pass with his steel sword. Jaskier studies his face but his expression could mean anything from a kind, loving, “you needed the sleep” to a grumpy, morose, “yeah I should have” and Jaskier has no idea where he falls on the scale. Geralt is unreadable when he’s this devastated, which is yet another reason why Jaskier hopes never to see him in this state again.

He sighs, and stretches, and reaches for his doublet when his movements pause… the tear in the fabric has been fixed in stitches far neater than his own. He looks back to Geralt, the evidence hanging limply in his hands, and wonders how long he has been awake, and why exactly a small tear in his clothing even registered on his list of priorities.

Geralt likes to keep busy, Jaskier supposes. Can’t fault a man for that. It doesn’t stop his heart reaching other conclusions though as the traitorous thing squeezes painfully at the implications.

Jaskier’s instinct is to call attention to his deed, to thank him, to praise his work with as much gusto as he usually reserves for heroic endeavours, just to see him squirm. He won’t though. Not today. Instead, he shoulders the doublet and strokes his fingers over the exemplary stitches with a secret smile. How ironic that the damage is so close to his heart.

***

The silence, once again, resumes.

They have been walking for some hours, the late sun beaming down their backs, the heat strong enough that they both walk with open shirts and rolled sleeves; outer layers discarded.

Geralt’s pace is slightly less punishing today and his aura slightly less murderous. It’s enough that by early evening, Jaskier has unsheathed his lute and is playing a couple of rudimentary chords, trying to find the right notes to convey the bleak mood.

Geralt turns with a frown and Jaskier freezes with dread, wondering if he stepped too far too soon, if Geralt was about to tear the precious lute from his arms and wreck it against the side of the mountain. “You have been… quiet,” he states, as if he’s only just noticed, as if Jaskier’s _monumental_ efforts to restrain himself had not been at all perceived nor appreciated.

Jaskier’s fingers end on a discordant chord. F sharp minor. The lover’s quarrel chord; one filled with longing and anticipation. “You like silence,” he states, trying to sound equally as apathetic and no doubt failing spectacularly. “And I’ll have you know that I am capable of it, when necessary.”

“I know you are,” Geralt whispers, his voice low, his expression still maddeningly unreadable.

Then, he turns back to the road and carries on as if that voice - that _damned_ voice - didn’t just utterly wreck him. That voice belongs to the campfire at night and the straw mattress in the early morn; it has no business being used here and now on a mountain Jaskier would dearly love to forget. He is thrown by the dissociation but his heart swells at having heard it again; the glimpse at the tender-hearted man that he thought he would not reclaim. If Geralt can be gentle, now, after everything, then perhaps he is not as broken by Yennefer as Jaskier had feared.

He follows in his footsteps and strums his fingers over the chords once again, beginning to hum a meek, loving, song.

***

Geralt stops before nightfall this time and they fall into their campsite routine, albeit a silent version. He feels Geralt’s eyes on him throughout - when he sings, and when he drinks, and even when he is wrapped in his bedroll, looking up at the stars. He doesn’t want to look back and break the spell; too afraid of what he will see there; but he feels it, and feels warmed by it, and hopes that the witcher sees whatever he needs to see.

***

Geralt is almost back to normal the next day, not enough that Jaskier wants to push it - even though he has _many_ composition notes he wants to put into practice - but enough that Jaskier wagers he can walk beside the man rather than a foot behind.

It’s a pleasant enough day and the ground is evening out as they approach the wooded valley. They are perhaps only a few miles from the clearing where they left Roach. Jaskier still practises caution around Geralt and his attempt at silence is helped by the stirring thoughts in his own mind as a new song takes shape. It’s a challenge to write without an instrument, but he is managing, the majority of the words are coming together to make lyrics that he thinks will fit reasonably well with the tune already composed.

“You should play,” Geralt grunts around midday.

“Huh?” Jaskier says, snapping out of his thoughts - _if this is the path I must take…_

“You’ve tripped over your feet five times,” Geralt states. He doesn’t sound irritated by it either, rather… amused? “You’re clearly lost in your thoughts.”

Was it that obvious?

“We can take a break,” he says, already shrugging off his swords. “And you can write it.”

“I-” Jaskier starts and then has no idea how to continue. Geralt has never offered such a thing before. “I don’t think you’ll like it,” he says bluntly. A ballad about how he had to watch helplessly as Yennefer broke Geralt’s heart is probably not something he is ready to hear now, or possibly ever.

“Since when has that stopped you?”

“Since-” he breaks off with a sigh.

Geralt has already taken to a nearby bush to relieve himself and Jaskier rolls his eyes at Geralt’s usual lack of preamble about these things.

He supposes, as long as they were stationary, he could pen a few lines. He keeps his voice quiet as he tests the new lyrics, lest Geralt overhear him, but the witcher seems less than interested, scouring the surroundings for alchemy ingredients.

He tries not to falter on the word ‘love’, tries not to let his embarrassment colour his cheeks, and falls into the song as much as he can. But his voice cracks on the word ‘wanting’ and tears spring in his eyes, the emotion still too raw to abate. He keeps his eyes closed and his emotions stifled. He has loved Geralt for twenty years and will be permitted twenty more if he can just -

“Sounds sad.”

Jaskier opens his eyes with a gasp. Geralt is closer than he thought. Sat beside him, almost, storing his finds. Geralt doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a gaze or acknowledgement as he continues with his task, but his words are more than enough.

“It is,” Jaskier says brokenly, as he finishes the last line and closes his notebook.

“What’s it about?”

Jaskier closes his eyes as another wave of anguish crashes ashore. No. This cannot be how this happens. He has wanted Geralt to take interest in his music for so long; he has written a dozen songs laden with accurate physiology and minimal heroics specifically to capture his interest, but now… now is when he chooses to take interest. Of course. When he pens his most personal song. “You won’t like it,” he repeats, as he stuffs away his lute and rises to his feet. “We should get going if we’re to reach Roach by sunset.”

He slings his bags over his shoulder and strides towards the forest, pitiful tears finally spilling on his cheeks.

***

By the time dusk falls around them, Jaskier has buried the song and the conversation deep. He picks flowers to distract himself from his growing dread. Geralt still has a nervous energy to him, a hot vibration that seems to radiate from under his skin, and it’s not the same heat he felt on the mountaintop but it’s similar; like a crackling fire instead of a roaring furnace. Jaskier can’t shake the feeling that as soon as Geralt is reunited with Roach, he will ride off into the unknown, facing his demons alone and leaving Jaskier to trudge back to the town. He prepares himself for the inevitability and tells himself that he will save his tears and shed them not a moment before.

Jaskier funnels his fears into deftly crafting the plants he has plucked; the thin bough wrapped around his own neck as he braids the long blades of grass together and weaves flowers throughout them.

“What are you making?” Geralt asks, perhaps a mile or so away from their inevitable departure.

“How do you know I’m making anything?” Jaskier retorts, allowing a little of his usual cheek to shine through.

It works if Geralt’s crooked smile is anything to go by. They are walking side by side again in a way that feels natural and entirely too pleasing.

“Maybe I’m just making for making’s sake. Keep my hands busy like you do.”

Geralt shakes his head, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. “I don’t believe you’re capable of the act.”

“Of what?” Jaskier asks, weaving another red beggartick blossom through the tapestry. “Keeping my hands busy? There’s a few ladies in Oxenfurt who could testify otherwise-”

“Making for making’s sake,” Geralt counters. “Everything you do has purpose.”

“Does it?” Jaskier asks, stooping to gather a handful of yellow blowballs in order to hide the blush on his cheeks. From Geralt, that could be read as none other than a compliment. “High praise from you,” he says, tucking the handful of spares behind his ear as he weaves the yellow flower into the braid.

“Hmm,” Geralt says thoughtfully, sparing him another glance. “So what is it?”

Jaskier sighs, caught out. “You will think me sentimental.”

“I already think you sentimental, Jaskier. Tell me.”

Jaskier allows a smile to come to his lips at Geratt’s soft but demanding voice. He will miss that gentle rumbling timbre most of all.

Jaskier sighs and weaves the last blowball into the braid. “It’s a gift. A necklace. I thought Roach might have missed us.”

Geralt snorts in cruel incredulity. “She’s a horse, Jaskier. She’s more likely to eat it than appreciate it.”

It stings that Geralt still thinks him so naive. Jaskier shakes his head and keeps pace. “I know,” he snaps. “Why do you think I made it out of grass?”

At this, Geralt does stop. He turns and looks at Jaskier with scrutiny. The same damn look Jaskier felt on him all last night.

Beggartick blossoms, fool’s parsley flowers, blowball… Roach’s favourite roadside snacks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes at Geralt’s dumbstruck expression, “She’s meant to eat it, you fool.”

Jaskier notes with some pride that it takes a moment for Geralt’s footsteps to resume.

***

As the last of the sun’s rays dip below the horizon, a familiar sight comes into view. The clearing. A distant chestnut horse. A heavy weight in Jaskier’s chest. His steps slow unconsciously and his eyes rake over his companion, taking the last opportunity to commit it to memory. He will leave, as he always leaves, and Jaskier will remember, as he always remembers.

But, strangely, this time, Jaskier isn’t the only one slowing his steps.

Beside him, Geralt slows, a thoughtful expression on his face as he looks towards the silhouette of a familiar horse on the red horizon.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and at this Jaskier’s steps falter entirely.

He looks to Geralt, searching his expression for an explanation but his face remains unreadable; closed.

“I did not realise…” he says, and with some difficulty it seems, drags his eyes from the horizon and towards Jaskier. “I thought I wanted to be alone. I did not.”

Inside him, something melts at this declaration. It is more than he expected. More than he had ever hoped.

“You are,” he continues, his eyes darting nervously between him and the forest, “the only one not bound to me who stays by my side. I don’t deserve it. I don’t understand it. But I am… grateful for it.”

“ _Geralt_ -” Jaskier whispers, his voice breaking on the name in utter betrayal of his senses and true reflection of his fissured heart because Geralt _would_ understand, he would, if he could just -

“Although,” Geralt says, his eyes now firmly locked to his, “I am perhaps beginning to understand a little of it.”

Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief, tears welling in his eyes as his heart wells with something else entirely. Geralt cannot be acknowledging this, not after so long. Jaskier had long ago resigned himself to never declaring his love, never acting on his impulses, because he thought it was the only way that Geralt would remain by his side. But if Geralt has known, has at least _suspected,_ his feelings all this time and still slept beside him at night then he cannot be as repulsed by the idea as Jaskier had first feared. Their friendship, he hopes, might actually survive this revelation. He also notes, with a little delight, that this is the most Geralt has spoken in _days_.

“Am I…” Geralt hesitates, his gaze straying again at the gravity of the conversation, “Perhaps understanding correctly?”

Jaskier bites his lip and opens his teary, honest, eyes to Geralt. He can be strong. He can do this. He will make his love plain to see if Geralt will deign to look. He does. And when they lock eyes, Jaskier gives him the smallest, ashamed, nod of assent.

Geralt breathes out a sigh, shaky and uncertain, and nothing at all like Jaskier has ever witnessed from him.

Something crumbles, deep within Jaskier’s soul. He swallows his heartbreak. Breaks the gaze. Moves on like he always does. It was an impossibility from the start; whether Geralt knew or not, whether he acknowledged it or not, it didn’t matter. They were still what they were. “Right,” he says, blinking back his tears. “So I’ll just give Roach her gift and then, uh, make my way to-”

There is a strong grip on his arm and when Jaskier looks back, Geralt is looking at the ground, radiating uncertainty. The emotion is so unnatural on him that for a wild moment, Jaskier considers the possibility that Geralt is somehow possessed. But his grip flexes, his shoulders tense, and Jaskier knows that Geralt is just _Geralt_ ; he’s just working through something too profound to vocalise.

And so, he waits.

Eventually, the grip loosens and instead of letting go, the hand moves with skittering movements down his arm. Goosebumps follow the trail and a breath catches in his throat. “Geralt,” he squeaks, an octave higher than his usual tone. “What are you-?”

Geralt pays his protestations no mind, his hand moving across his skin with a singular, nervous but determined motion, until his fingers reach Jaskier’s own. Jaskier’s heart skips in his chest. His vision has narrowed to the singular point of contact. And Geralt, goddamn him, is still staring at the damn forest floor as his hand comes to curl protectively around Jaskier’s. Not moving. Just... holding.

Jaskier wants to cry, he wants to sing, he wants to kiss the very life out of Geralt of Rivia, but to do any one of these things would break the delicate spell between them. He inhales a stuttering breath and cautiously reaches out with his other hand towards Geralt’s face; the witcher's expression still paralysed with emotion, eyes fixed to the ground. Jaskier’s hand trembles reflecting his own nerves as he approaches. He can see how fast breaths are coming between Geralt’s open lips; faster than any beast or man has ever warranted. He could snap. He could scream. He could do any number of things. For the first time in their acquaintance, Jaskier really does feel like he’s taming a white wolf.

He breathes out his nerves, steady and sure - if they do not cross this bridge now this moment will haunt him to his grave, he has to -

His hand makes contact. The effect is immediate - the tension easing out of Geralt like hot water in a bathtub - and it gives him the confidence to do what he desperately wants to do as he applies a little pressure with this thumb and forefinger and turns Geralt’s face towards him.

Geralt goes begrudgingly and Jaskier’s heart pounds. He is so afraid of what he will see. Hatred. Anger. Resentment. He is afraid of every outcome, but he has to know. Geralt was reaching for him, and he has to know why.

Geralt’s eyes are scrunched shut by the time he faces him. Closed off. Unreadable.

“Geralt-” Jaskier tries, because he desperately needs to know.

Geralt’s hand clenches against his fist but when the rest of him remains stubbornly silent and stubbornly still, Jaskier dares move this thumb across his face and that, at last, causes Geralt’s eyelids to flutter open.

What Jaskier sees renders him speechless. Immobile. There is so much depth there. More than he has ever seen. There is so much _pain_ there. More than he has ever seen. There is… love.

“Geralt,” he says again, and this time he does not need courage to step forward; it is instinct, plain and simple. “Talk to me,” he begs, because it’s worked before and he’s damn well going to make it work again.

Geralt grunts and Jaskier feels the dam breaking as Geralt places his other hand on his hip and urgently tugs him closer. Jaskier stumbles into it and the space Geralt has created as their foreheads come to rest together.

A strangled sound leaves Jaskier’s throat at the intimacy; feeling Geralt’s still over-exerted breaths move moist air between his own lips.

The hand leaves his hip and travels up his back and into his hair and Jaskier tries not to sigh like a lovesick fool at the sensation. He has imagined this all too many times but his imagination failed him on just how gentle Geralt’s touch would be; how reverent.

Then, his fingers pause against his temple and a curious smile lights his lips.

Jaskier’s heart restricts at the sight. He has never seen his smile up close before and, oh, how he had underestimated its radiance; it feels like sunshine on a winter’s day.

“What is it?” Jaskier can’t help but ask; a flutter in his chest.

Geralt pulls away a little with that secret little smile of his and displays his find before them. A flower. From the braid. Jaskier must have forgotten one when he tucked the bunch of blowballs behind his ear.

“It suits you,” Geralt murmurs and Jaskier can feel the rumble of his voice penetrate his skin. It feels warm. Exhilarating. Homely. And, obligingly, Geralt returns the flower to his hair before resting his forehead back against Jaskier’s. “You are…” he breathes out, his hand coming to stroke his cheek in a way that makes Jaskier’s eyes helplessly flutter closed.

“What?” Jaskier murmurs, sleepily enchanted by Geralt’s tender affections.

He feels more than hears Geralt’s sigh. “Kind.”

Kind? Not a compliment he has perhaps ever received, but he’ll take it. He’ll take any words that Geralt gives him and remember them for eternity. Jaskier smiles as he resists in his own urge to tuck his fingers into Geralt’s loose hair.

“I do not know,” Geralt says with some difficulty, “If such kindness exists in my world.”

His eyes are searching Jaskier’s and he can read the subtext between: I do not know if _you_ ought to exist in my world. Jaskier closes his eyes and butts his forehead against Geralt’s, overburdened with emotion. “Allow me,” he begs, “To find out.”

And then, Geralt is tilting his head, just slightly, just enough to take Jaskier’s lips softly between his own.

Jaskier makes a strangled sound at the unbelievably gentle kiss. It is no more than a press of lips - an affirmation - but it makes Jaskier’s heart _sing_. He cradles Geralt’s head and desperately tries to remember every nerve that tingles and every flutter in his chest so that he can commit them to memory. If this is all Geralt gives him, it will be enough, he knows. This kiss will be enough to sustain him to the end of his days. Fourteen ballads, at least, shall be composed in its honour.

He daren’t not deepen the kiss while Geralt is so emotionally fraught and his instinct proves correct as moments later he pulls away to rest their foreheads together once more.

“The coast,” Geralt whispers. “You wanted to go to the coast.”

Jaskier’s heart soars at the unspoken promise. He nods against him, and despite his best intentions, passion overrules sense as he surges up for another kiss. Geralt groans and holds on, just as desperately as Jaskier had, as they press their lips firmly together once more.

 _Enough. Enough now,_ Jaskier thinks as he tears himself away. _I have gathered the salve and the bandages; he will come to me._

It will take time, he knows, but he sees the burning in Geralt’s eyes and knows it will come. He will heal in time. He may even love him in time. Geralt falls into his arms a moment later; an embrace, one might call it, if Geralt had any notion of the concept.

Jaskier wraps his arms tight around him as feeble stars begin to emerge in the darkness. The time for silence has passed, he knows, and a new song lies upon the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks for reading! you can follow me on [tumblr](https://vands38.tumblr.com/) if you so desire :-)


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